Testing Ground
by Sealurk
Summary: Where and how does the SGC train its personnel? Set after Stargate: Continuum.


**Testing Ground**

"...and the Canadian Defence Minister hasn't confirmed yet, but his staff are suggesting you'll have to delay the exercise after all – they can't guarantee total secrecy for March 13 through 22 yet, but the implication is that the DoD aren't meeting the agreed investment plan on time, so you'll have to get on to General O'Neill about that. Lieutenant Reilly has been pulled from training entirely, for medical reasons – Doctor Turner says he'll need a few months to recuperate, after which he'll be returned to his original unit."

"I'm not sure I want to know, but...what medical reasons?" he asked his secretary, sighing and stifling a yawn. It sounded like the latest disaster to hit his heavily strained schedule.

"He took eight Intar shots to the chest, General." she replied flatly, without even looking up.

"Wait - Intars aren't dangerous, that's why we bought them from the Jaffa, it doesn't matter how many times you get shot." he said, confused. It was too early to be dealing with things like this, he decided. Golden sunlight was pouring through the window of his tiny, spartan office.

"Actually, they are dangerous when you're twenty-seven feet above the ground, walking along a tree branch in an allegedly very poorly planned attempt to get into the enemy base. He broke both his legs and cracked two ribs, and he has a mild concussion."

"Oh Christ, not another one. For every hero of the SGC you get ten of these moronic wannabes. Crap...what's the fallout from that then?"

"Colonel Johnson has failed him and put SGP-13 on standby until his replacement has passed selection."

The Brigadier General's gaze shifted as his secretary continued to expound the incident that had robbed his command of another team leader in minute, interminable and sterile detail. It was at times like this his mind wandered.

His office was a depressing place to run a base from, a concrete walled box with a single window. It was barely furnished apart from the ridiculously out of place, oversized desk and a few pieces of standard military furniture. A handful of framed photographs, certificates and commendations sat on the drab grey walls. It occurred to him with a hint of jealousy that Hank Landry's office was better than this, and he worked a mile underground, where space was at a premium. But then he'd never been one to spend more of his budget on himself than was absolutely necessary – essentials only, the rest you make do without, or pay for yourself.

Sighing, he turned his attention back to Alice Simpson, his civilian secretary. The NID had repeatedly warned him about her when the Department of Defence had decided to transfer her to his command – now he wished he's listened to them. She was indeed one of the most frighteningly organised, ruthlessly efficient and psychotically officious members of their administration staff, often to the point that it almost seemed like she was precognitive – she knew what he wanted, was going to say or was going to do before he did, it seemed. He wondered idly if she was in any way related to Sergeant Walter Harriman at the SGC. His daydream snapped back to the business at hand – Reilly's backup.

"When will that be?" he asked without a hint of interest, his head propped up on the far-too-expensive oak desk by his left arm. He gazed at the monitor of the PC with undisguised contempt and loathing. It was a symbol of everything that had gone wrong with this job. Being head hunted by O'Neill to lead Homeworld Security's – and by extension the International Oversight Advisory's – military training facility had seemed like the most perfect, desirable career move he could have made. He had been promoted and was being granted command of a secret facility in Nevada, near to the Groom Lake research and development base, charged with the education, training and shaping of the men and women who would go on to protect the entire planet from extraterrestrial threats, and he had been granted almost _carte blanche_ to do so. Four months later, he hated his job and had begun drinking again after almost three decades without touching a drop. He was drowning in bureaucracy, budget cuts and impossible deadlines.

"Captain Hilliam hasn't even been fully vetted yet. Four weeks has been suggested as the fastest the NID can finish the process. And you remember what happened the last time they accelerated the vetting process. Things get missed." she prompted. General Turnbull groaned for the sixth time in an hour. He'd found from experience that his secretary was stern, emotionless, cold and insensitive, and barely had a personality. He imagined locking her in a room with one of the Aschen, smiling to himself as he imagined the alien human huddled in a corner screaming "I'm sorry, I'll tell you everything, just get me away from her!". She was staring coldly at him again though, barely allowing him two seconds to digest this latest morsel of bad news before ploughing on with the updates. He snapped out of the latest daydream, almost feeling guilty.

"General Landry says the Basic Offworld Orientation Mission will have to be moved back to the nineteenth, because the Alpha Site's having maintenance problems with their Iris again, but he can free up the fifth and sixth of next month for the OCT-As since the Jaffa cancelled the talks." she said, not once looking up from her clipboard.

"We have a choice? SGP-7, 8, 2 and 5 have been waiting two months for their Crazy Eights, damn it." he grumbled. The Offworld Combat Training – Advanced missions were the final test of any provisional SG team before assignment to active duty, and their nickname, the Crazy Eights, was too well deserved. "Fine...that'll have to do, just get confirmation _in writing_ from Hank – I know what that guy's like. What else?"

"Groom Lake want to know where their new marine units are because the Daedalus is due back in three days and they haven't received the replacement security teams. The latest shipment of Intars hasn't arrived. Apparently relations with the Jaffa are..." she said, searching for the most delicate and calculated way of describing the situation.

"F.U.B.A.R.? Reduced to toxic ash at the bottom of a flaming pit in Hell? Truly, royally, monumentally screwed?" he offered, smiling cheerfully. The roller-coaster ride that were Tau'ri-Jaffa relations had recently pitched downwards into a five hundred foot vertical drop, and the IOA was pulling out all the stops to frantically lay track that would at least level things out. The latest round of the Jaffa-Earth Trade Agreement talks had stalled once again over concerns of too many conditions, and too much perceived control and interference by Earth in the rebuilding of the Jaffa homeworld, Dakara.

"...I was going to say frosty, at best. The negotiations will have to start all over again." she said.

"Let me guess, this also means the exercise has been scrubbed, right?" Turnbull had almost been looking forward to the space combat manoeuvres, Operation Orbit Storm, which would have seen the Apollo and her F-302s practice orbital engagement tactics alongside Jaffa Ha'taks, Al'kesh and Death Gliders. At the same time, the ships would be supporting a joint simulated ground engagement in which Jaffa troops would work alongside Earth soldiers, learning how to combine their disparate tactics and strategies into a single unified instrument – Operation Golden Sword. In the wake of the Ori conflict, both governments had learnt the hard way that despite their military power, they were far from invincible. Now these vital and much anticipated exercises had likely been cancelled – and another chance to get offworld and away from this job for a while had slipped through his fingers.

"It hasn't been formally announced by the Secretary of Defence yet, but yes, that seems almost certain. And finally, General O'Neill has refused your requested budget increase – he says 4 is the very best he can manage."

Turnbull covered his eyes with his hands, groaning again. He had a thirty-six percent increase in trainees over the last month, but only a four percent increase in budget – and he'd been dangerously close to the limit of his spending abilities four weeks ago.

"Well, I suppose we can cut back on non-essentials. Tell the canteen they're only serving one meal every other day, and remove every light bulb and toilet roll from the base. And do it yourself so I don't have to pay anybody else." he said, raising his head.

"Of course, sir." Alice said automatically – it was getting to be something of an old joke. "I'll get right on it. In the meantime - "

"No meantime, Alice...I'm going for a walk. I need air." he said, sighing and grabbing his jacket.

* * *

Turnbull looked around the Nevada landscape. The sun was just rising over the mountains, casting an amber glow over everything - dawn in the desert. The country might just be waking up, but the NOTE was in full swing. New recruits were already being put through intense physical fitness drills around the camp, looking exhausted and near breaking point, and he smiled as he thought, "If they think that's tough, wait until they get to P3G-T65 for High Gravity Acclimation and Combat Practice". There was a reason the HGACP course was known informally as the Breaker.

Wandering through the grounds of the simple base, he noted two provisional SG teams using one of the four fibreglass and acrylic Stargate mock-ups to practice gate defence and assault tactics...and he noted seven dangerously naïve mistakes in the few seconds he observed them. These were seasoned soldiers, drawn from elite units, most of them having seen active service in Iraq and Afghanistan, but the special character and unique requirements of Stargate operations meant it was almost like he was training green recruits – often they had to completely relearn even basic tactics and combat doctrine to suit alien worlds, alien hostiles and alien situations. He considered going over and giving them an earful for their shoddy tactics, but he knew he could rely on Colonels Johnson and Stubbs to do much the same.

The Nevada Offworld Training Establishment was a comparatively young installation. Created shortly after the existence of the Stargate was disclosed to the United Nations Security Council's permanent members, in anticipation of numerous requests for Stargate operations by the other nations that never materialised, it had been intended as the first dedicated facility for the training of potential SG teams, SGC security, Atlantis personnel and Daedalus-class crew – anybody who would go offworld or deal with the extraordinary, in fact. They even ran a stripped down, much less punishing one-day course for dignitaries, administrators and short-term / low risk Stargate travellers.

"Ah, the old walk-and-talk routine. You know me well, Bob."

Turnbull turned lazily from his vantage point, staring at the silver haired, blue uniformed officer behind him. An all too familiar face beamed back at him, and he groaned under his breath.

"No offence, but what the hell are you doing here, Jack?"

"Can you at least salute your superior officer when you insult him?" Major General Jack O'Neill replied, mock-offended. Turnbull knew most officers would have jumped on a subordinate for not saluting them, let alone talking back to them like that, but Jack had always had little time for such things, especially from people he knew as well as Turnbull. As long as they maintained respect, he had no problem with a more casual, informal manner. But Turnbull also viewed it as a measure of karma – in return for his casual manner towards his superiors over the years, he was now on the receiving end almost constantly.

"Hey, that wasn't an insult – trust me, you'll know when I insult you. So...what are you doing here? Surely there's a budget you can be slashing back at the Pentagon? Mine, probably. Or is it getting too dull in DC?" Turnbull said, turning away and strolling past the fake Stargate and the intense chewing out the trainees were receiving from Colonel Stubbs regarding an exposed flank and a trainee who had just been "killed" by running into the event horizon of an incoming wormhole.

"Oh please, do you actually think I'd come all the way down here on a red eye flight just to get away from paperwork for a day?" General O'Neill replied, scoffing.

"Yes, in a heartbeat."

O'Neill cocked his head in fake contemplation.

"Yes, you're right, I would actually." he said cheerfully. "But that's not why I'm here. How are the new Atlantis teams coming along, Bob?"

"Don't call me Bob. They're being put through the course as fast as they can – they have total priority, after all. But even I can't train men and women to explore and fight on other planets _if I have no money_. Even after all the cutbacks, I've got six teams for the SGC in my schedule, eight marine units for Atlantis, two for the Daedalus, one each for the Apollo and the Odyssey, and the crew for the next 304 to get ready, not to mention a new Russian unit. And last month I had two British units, damned SAS no less! Since when are the Brits part of this?" he exclaimed. "The joint US-Canadian extended exercises in British Columbia have been pretty much scrapped thanks to the DoD as well."

"You know, they'll probably see more than enough pine trees and mountains when they get off world, they don't need to get used to the most abundant offworld climate here on Earth. Why is that, anyway?" O'Neill murmured.

"That's not the reason and you know it! And conifers are part of the Goa'uld terraforming process. But-but that's not the point! Look, I have no damn budget left. I'm bogged down in every direction by triplicate forms, waivers, risk assessments, vetting analyses and useless, pointless requisition forms!"

He sighed and composed himself, gazing at the ground for a neutral focus. "Look, this isn't a big base – we're little more than an offshoot of Groom Lake, hell, we even share half our facilities with Area 51. Jack, I can only do so much...especially with so little, and it's a hell of an operation – often literally. I mean, look at me. You know me, Jack – this isn't the Robert Turnbull you know! I'm not the type to moan, and groan, and complain, but I am doing, all day every day. Because without the proper funding, this place won't work. And it's destroying me. But then you knew that would happen when you asked me to command, didn't you?" he said, accusingly, hearing his voice getting higher and faster with barely contained emotion.

The Major General's expression changed, all hints of his characteristic flippancy vanished, transitioning abruptly into his no-nonsense, serious mode of talking.

"Hey, even I'm not that shallow or vindictive, so let me spell it out for you – our history isn't a factor here." O'Neill said, stabbing a finger at Turnbull's chest. "I picked you because I _knew_ you were the ideal choice to head up this place, because I've seen the men you trained. Bob, I owe my _life_ to men you've trained, this whole planet owes its existence to men you've trained – one of them is head of the military in Atlantis and another leads SG-1 right now. So regardless of our differences, I knew you'd do a hell of a job here. So why haven't you?" O'Neill said. Turnbull was quickly reminded why this man was the de facto head of the entire planet's defences against interstellar threats, and why he was personally responsible for saving it on so many occasions.

Turnbull took a deep breath, but it wasn't to calm himself.

"You know what, I can't work miracles. You want more personnel than ever, but you've cut my budget back to almost nothing. But hey, that's okay, because you're Major General Jack O'Neill, the golden boy of the Air Force, saviour of the whole damned planet and the favourite of President Hayes. If you want more men for no money, why, you'll get it, just screw the guys underneath you for what they need. You can't run Homeworld Security if you don't have troops, or battlecruiser crews, or even scientists who know how fire a God damned pistol, but you're damned if you're actually going to pay for it!" he shouted angrily. He no longer felt despondent and depressed, moaning about ultimately trivial issues – something had snapped, some pressure release valve had blown, and now he was furious his duty had been interfered with, a duty he had been specifically picked to carry out. And he knew he was stretching the line between informal banter and outright insubordination to breaking point, if in fact he hadn't already punched through, but he didn't care.

"I'll tell you what, Jack, insubordination be damned, I am this damn close to telling the Joint Chiefs and the DoD in general to get their heads out of their asses and give me the budget I want...that I _need _so that I can train men and women to protect the Earth and her allies, and if they have to go without chauffeured limousines and private jets so we can have an effective fighting force protecting this whole _planet_, I'll damn well make them, so help me God! So if you're not here to give me good news or a briefcase full of cash, get the hell off my base, senior officer or not!" he roared.

In his rage, he barely noticed a lot of the recruits, and even their instructors, stop what they were doing and turn to stare at their commanding officer, transformed from the wet, uninterested man they knew into a suddenly furious, energised monster.

O'Neill almost took a step back, pausing several seconds before speaking, in a low, almost soft voice.

"We need the money because we have a fleet to build – it's to do with a pesky bunch called the Wraith, amongst others, and a BC-304 takes a hell of a lot longer to get ready than her crew. And more importantly...I wanted to see how much you'd fight for this, Pit Bull."

It was Turnbull's turn to pause and nearly take a step back, but for different reasons. Nobody had called him by his former call-sign for years, least of all Jack. The whole conversation, the budget cuts and deadlines for the past few months had ultimately been to remind him of his former self. Jack had deliberately gone out of his way to antagonise him to force Bob Turnbull to the bottom and reawaken Colonel Robert 'Pit Bull' Turnbull.

"You cunning bastard. So that's why." he found himself grinning as they began walking again, the soldiers and instructors quickly returning to their duties. "So I get my budget back, and all I had to do was lose it with my boss. I need to try that more often."

O'Neill's expression didn't change, but there was a hint of friendliness there, behind the mask he maintained. It wasn't much, just a minor twitch at the corner of the mouth that suggested a suppressed grin. As soon as he'd seen it, it was gone, and O'Neill returned to being serious and professional.

"Actually, no, you don't – not all of it anyway, because I wasn't joking. We're having problems with the 304 programme, and it needs all the extra cash it can get. But the main – and official – reason I came here is to talk to you about the Brits. It's still being cleared with the President, but apparently they want to train another five offworld teams. As soon as possible, I'm told. I can't give you the details yet."

"Five? Five!? I don't have the space or the budget for _one_ more team!" Turnbull protested. Every time he dealt with Jack O'Neill, he ended up shouting at him or arguing. Or both.

O'Neill sighed, and turned.

"You know, I actually thought you'd be happy about that...Bob."

"Now why in God's name would that make me happy?" Turnbull demanded through gritted teeth, his anger flaring again.

"Oh, didn't I mention? Their Ministry of Defence want to expand and joint fund this little outpost of yours, on top of paying for their own teams. It works out at a little less than double the budget increase you requested."

Turnbull stood silently, stunned, as O'Neill walked back to the angular concrete structure that served as the centre of the camp. All in all, the meeting had gone surprisingly well.


End file.
